Yartar: Civil War
by toclarify
Summary: Roywyn Timbers, extra-ordinary gnome, wizard, wereraven, and member of the Neighborhood Watch (a division of the City Watch), sets out to stop the nefarious 'Society for the Improvement of Yartar' with her familiar, Willard. The City Watch needs to be organised before it collapses for the 43rd time... and before Greengrass, of course, or else the flower smugglers win.


Prologue (An Explanation, to Set the Setting)

This story starts with a tavern on the edge of a sweltering city called Yartar. It is famed for its' internal squabbles, criminal activity, and barge-building industry. Too many people call it home, so as a result everyone ends up looking for somewhere to live after rent skyrockets after every six months.

Inns make fine business here.

This particular tavern is called The Smashed Spider, which is a surprisingly reputable place. It got its' name from an uncharacteristic burst of creativity on the part of the tavernkeeper, who realised that 'smashed' had two meanings. You can buy meals here 24/7 for only three coppers. The furniture is in good shape, though it sometimes smells suspicious in the tavern, like the smell of cheap perfume covering up a more malicious scent. The food can sometimes have strange colouring, or the drinks might have things bobbing around in them, but it's one of the best in the city.

At the moment, three individuals who have never met before are in various states about the room. One is arguing with the man serving drinks. He is short, with fiery red hair and a temper to match, waving his mug about like a sledgehammer. Another is a man sipping from his mug of 'Liquid Ecstasy' and seeming to simmer in his dark corner, wearing a black half-mask. Last of all, there is a female who is short with pointy ears, trying to determine the ingredients of the food while absentmindedly petting a winged cat.

The dwarf who is arguing is named Thorin Ironfist. He always tells anyone who gets in his way (very proudly) that he's earned his last name, and that if they don't do it his way, he'll proudly fulfil the expectations of that name. The poor brewer who is being harassed is trying to defend himself.

"See here," he says nervously. "I've told you, quality is what you pay for, and – "

"That's right!" roars Thorin, waving his mug about even more rigorously. "I have paid for this cup of junk! Supposedly sixty percent alcohol, but I drain it fast and what happens? Nothing!"

"Sir," says the brewer nervously. "You've got to wait for a little before you start sliding. Actually, it should be taking effect quite soon if you've finished it that fast, anyhow."

"Well, it isn't!" storms Thorin, slapping the counter. "See these knuckles? They're almost as hard as iron, and anyone who has experienced them can attest to that! You don't want to be the next one, do you?"

At this moment, he stumbles, and starts retching as his liver decides to seek vengeance.

Across the room, there is a man, Grim Greycastle, sitting in the left corner, eyeing the proceedings with some interest. Idly, he sips his drink (eighty percent alcohol, twenty percent leftover scraps from a year ago fermented to make the alcohol), thinking that youngsters these days need to develop better stamina when it comes to drinking. He seems to be radiating an aura of mystery, the kind that makes you want to look at him in curiosity, then look away just as quickly. It seems to be simmering under his skin.

Of course, there is also the strange half-mask on his face lending to that aura.

Lastly, at a table near the doorway, is the gnome, Roywyn Timbers, who is using a spell to attempt to identify the ingredients in her food. Her tressym (winged cat), Willard, has confirmed that it is not poisoned, though the meat is green and slightly purple, the eggs look like plastic, and the vegetables are little more than rotted leaves mixed with what looks to be green Jell-O.

She is not getting any clear results from her spell, and she wonders if it's even possible to find a decent place to eat around here.

On the other side of Yartar, a _secret_ meeting is taking place.

"I trust that our troops have been deployed?" whispers a Darth Vader voice from underneath a hood.

"Yessir," says a crisp, young voice from underneath a hood that keeps falling over his eyes.

"I commend you on your excellent work," continues the whisper, as if the other voice hasn't just spoken. "Soon, we can invade the Lord's Alliance, starting with it's most disorganised member."

"Yessir," says that voice again, now sounding slightly frustrated as he pushes the hood off his eyes for the umpteenth time. "Why do we have to wear these? You've already got extra security. It's not as if someone can see us."

"Hmm," says that whisper. "Let me think… Oh, yes. **_Because I say so._** "

This is spoken so that you can almost see the vibrations of power in the air from that statement, making the other speaker nod emphatically. "Of course, sir!"

"We start by taking over one of the foundations of a good city." The whisper sounds amused.

"W-what might that be?"

"The news." You can almost see the thin, cruel smile.

Thorin has by now collapsed on the floor, and he is beginning to flop about like an agonized fish.

"Hello?" The innkeeper snaps his fingers. He sighs. He's seen this too often before. He pulls out a cup that looks only mildly dirty, filling it up with his special 'hangover tea', consisting of ingredients that Willard would instantly define as poisonous. Exiting the counter, he tips the foul mixture straight down Thorin's throat, causing him to gag, then throw up everything he has eaten or drank in the past two days.

Thorin splutters like a fish. The vomit is starting to pool around his head, and his bright red hair is beginning to look maroon.

Roywyn looks a little concerned, so she decides to walk up to the nutso dwarf and ask if he needs help. Grim has already beaten her to it, and has laid his hands on Thorin's chest, pushing vitality back into his body.

"Demon!" croaks Thorin when he sees Grim with his mask.

Grim raises his eyebrows, though you can't see it behind his mask. "That has to be one of the most ironic things someone has ever said to me. Seems to be an old favorite." His voice is soft and slightly accented, like the kind you get in an assassin seconds before they kill you.

Thorin groans, seeming to notice the state of his hair and beard for the first time. "Then take the darned mask off, you idiot."

Grim punches Thorin so hard that Thorin slides a good two metres on the floor, trailing the disgusting liquid of his stomach. Thorin is now sufficiently angered, and roars, charging straight for Grim, using his head like a battering ram, lifting Grim off his feet and hurtling him against the wall.

"Hey!" shouts Roywyn, and Willard immediately interposes himself between the two men.

"This your kitty?" sneers Thorin, and Willard immediately reaches out and gives him a nasty shock. "Ow!"

"This is Yartar, young lady," says Grim, rolling his eyes, though again it is concealed by his mask somewhat. "Tavern brawls are the normal around here."

"I am just saving your miserable behinds from the tavernkeeper, who happens to be standing over the two of you with a meat cleaver," notes Roywyn with a cheery smile.

Both men pale somewhat at the imposing figure of the very, very angry tavernkeeper. "I have a reputation to keep," he says with a slight bit of bite in his voice. He points to the door, which is covered in stickers that read things like 'Honourable Mention' and 'Second Place'. "Fourteen years of being the second-best tavern in all of Yartar," he says, raising the meat cleaver even higher. "This year, you louts are the first people in here to have a tavern brawl! The first! Now my reputation has been marred again!" He has a sort of crazed glint in his eyes.

"Excuse me," says Roywyn in a small voice. "Couldn't you… try to improve your food situation around here?"

"On whose authority will I do that?"

"Mine," says Roywyn suddenly, and quite firmly. She pulls out a badge that reads 'Official Yartar Tavern Inspector.'

The tavernkeeper falls over into a dead faint, the meat cleaver dropping from his fingers and making a 'clang' noise as it hits the floor.

"Gets them every time," says Roywyn, carefully putting the badge back.

Both men are now staring at her: one open-mouthed, the other with invisible raised eyebrows.

"Are you really a tavern inspector?" asks Thorin.

"Nope," says Roywyn cheerfully.

"Who, then?"

"Should be pretty obvious." She pulls a set of manacles out of her pouch, handcuffing the unconscious man.

"The City Watch?!" say both men at the same time.

"Begging your pardon," says Grim politely, "But I wasn't aware that that existed around here."

"We're sort of a loose organisation," admits Roywyn. "We're more like one great watch, split into different neighborhood watches. We've all got different roles. I'm an investigator. We also only started up last year, because the previous Watches kept getting split up, so we keep trying." She lifts the man, saying, "Tenser's Floating Disk." The man is soon suspended above the ground. "I don't suppose that you know someone who can run this place while I'm off?"

"No," says Thorin.

"All right! Listen up!" shouts Roywyn. All the patrons immediately look up. "This place is now closed in the name of the law! See you around!"

And she leaves, carting the man behind her on the disc.


End file.
